Greenhorns
by tripplehorn
Summary: "I love you. I can't live without you. Don't go. Please."- Things were finally settling back to normal after wrapping up The Rouge Brothers case. Still haunted, Andy is taking every day as a new challenge. But that's the thing about progress; there is always another obstacle. Or three.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, guys! I couldn't stay away for too long. Not with how I left the last story. I've been planning on following up with a sequel since the middle of The Rouge Brothers. I felt I couldn't properly tell their story without another few dozen chapters. So, Voila!

A short one to begin with, but I appreciate hearing from you guys! xx

* * *

She breathed out, blinking once slowly.

Her forefinger pulled down on the trigger. It was a quick, staccato movement. It was just one round, it was fast, and it was effective.

It was a good shot.

It needed to be done. She just couldn't help but think of what _he_ will do. But consequences drifted from her mind when she saw the way the blood weaved over her target's chest. It was mesmerizing. Her skin vibrated with the last dregs of adrenaline.

It wasn't just fear that coursed through her veins, it was victory.

She'd finally won. She'd finally come out of the shadows on the other side, a winner. There was no pity here, as the victim's skin drained of colour. She'd practiced this, prepared for this. Her brain thumped almost as hard as her heart as she lowered her gun.

Her eyes watered and she knew she'd allowed this task to take a piece of her soul. But she was prepared to do that.

Her ears still rang; like the bullet had only just left the barrel. The wind, tepid and smooth, brushed her hair from her eyes, as if pulling away a curtain to reveal the scene.

Her chest rose and fell evenly as she stared at her work. It was a bizarre feeling, killing someone. Too hard to put into words; you can only know if you do it yourself. There is nothing similar, nothing to compare it to.

However, she was somewhat surprised at how light she felt in that moment. It was over; and they were free.

She had to find Sam.

* * *

~SIX MONTHS EARLIER~

Heat wave.

"_Honing in on our third day of record high temperatures, people. Prepare yourselves, it's gonna be a hot one."_

Andy clicked off the radio in frustration. The air-conditioning in Sam's truck was on the fritz, _of course._ The highest temperatures on record for this time of year, and _of course_ Sam's truck has to crap out.

The windows rolled all the way down, Andy still didn't feel like the breeze was helping. Even the wind was hot. It felt like somebody was throwing hot soup over her face. It did nothing to cool her down.

And yet Sam loved this weather. He slept like a log, and was always in a good mood. Andy didn't mind the heat, either, if it weren't for the fact that she was on a stretch of night shifts this week, with not even a glimmer of hope of getting to the beach to cool off.

Sleeping in the heat of daylight was also a poke in the ribs. It was impossible to get comfortable.

She'd never been this frustrated in the last few years living in the city. Perhaps it was because she was staying at Sam's place so much. His apartment was pretty low set; it didn't get the breeze like her loft does, nor does it help that the sun pretty much sits on it the entire day, heating up everything like a sauna.

Andy was on her way home from her second night shift. It was ten a.m and already sweltering. Maybe she was overreacting because she got cranky during night work. Trying to rationalise it didn't help, though. Sam had driven to work and handed her over the keys so she could drive home comfortably, but the gesture died as quickly as the AC.

Andy was also trying to ignore the fact that two weeks ago, when everything was cool and easy, and not perfect but close, something had changed. That stupid green pickup truck had really done a number on Sam.

Two weeks.

Two freaking weeks and Sam had barely peeped. Andy also thought maybe that's why he "slept" so well in the heat, that's why he "enjoyed" being at work, away from her, not because he liked this weather, but because he could easily avoid the conversation Andy had been practically begging to have.

What the fuck?

It might not even be a big deal, but because he refused to talk, it made Andy increasingly frustrated and curious.

Sam's talent for avoiding was award-winning. He'd somehow managed to make it so that they wouldn't have a spare moment together alone. They were even working opposite shifts so that when one of them was home, the other was at work.

It could be the sleep deprivation and the humidity drowning her brain, but Andy was beginning to suspect that Sam asked to have his shifts separate from hers. He was staying away on purpose and she hated to admit, even to herself, that it hurt something inside her.

Just when the dust had begun to settle, and the tide was calm, things had been flung unceremoniously in the opposite direction.

If it wasn't the heat that kept her from sleeping, it was the incessant thinking. Not just about Sam's aloofness, but The Rouge Brothers, and Phillip Couperet, and Katie Couperet. She dreamed of Carl's hands around her throat, his sinking chuckle, the smell of his breath as he had leaned so close to her.

Things were still raw and chaffed.

She'd even, stupidly, gotten used to sleeping next to someone almost every night. But whenever she came home alone to an empty hot apartment, she felt like she was suffocating, like before, when everybody else was on the outside looking in.

She was in the glass case alone again, scratching fruitlessly at the walls.

Where was Sam to help her fight her way out?

* * *

Once she'd calmed down from her tirade over the broken air-conditioning, Andy drove aimlessly around town for a while, stopping to pick up some milk, bread, and eggs. She didn't eat the bread, but Sam always had toast in the mornings.

Turning on to Sam's street, for the first time this week, Andy was glad she was home at an odd hour. The street was empty, and for once it wasn't a nightmare to find a parking spot.

At dusk, the street filled with the rest of the neighbourhood on their regular nine to five hours. Andy must have been the only person home. She pulled up on the curb right outside Sam's house, pulled the key out of the ignition and opened the door.

She had her bag half slung over her shoulder when she noticed it.

The green pickup.

She bit her lip, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. She memorised the licence plate, seriously considering looking it up when she got back to work for her next shift.

Andy kept her eye on it, as if it would move while her back was turned, or somehow reveal its salience. It did neither.

Instead of watching it all day, she resigned herself to the couch to wind down before getting some sleep. Early morning breakfast shows were among the pickings, not one of them even vaguely appealing. But it was either that, or some infomercials.

Her mind kept flashing back to that freaking pickup truck. Was she overreacting? Had she imagined the whole thing? Was Sam's reaction even that big?

She closed her eyes, going back to that day.

Yeah, it _was_ that big.

No, she couldn't be overreacting.

There was something else going on with Sam and whoever that car belonged to.

* * *

After another half hour of dozing on the couch, Andy was shuffling like a zombie to the bedroom. She took a deep breath before flopping ungracefully onto the mattress, fully clothed and on top of the covers. She pulled Sam's pillow toward her, hugging it to her chest.

She could so easily drift off at this point.

That is, until she heard the scratch.

Like a branch against a window pane.

It was quick and subtle, but it caused her to shoot up off the bed with shock. That was the thing about post-traumatic stress; it tended to leave you wound up tighter than piano wire.

Every noise or sudden movement would rake through her like a set of sharp claws.

She stood up, heart thumping too fast, stumbling slightly, disoriented.

"Sam?" she called out, glancing down at her alarm clock as she tried to regain balance.

One p.m. So she'd been sleeping for longer than she thought.

Bleary eyed, she stepped out into the hallway, curling her lip at the wall of stuffy heat she stepped into. The apartment had shitty ventilation.

"Sam? Are you home?" up and down the hall, nothing but emptiness.

She wasn't sure what unnerved her more; the idea that there was somebody there, or the opposite.

It was hard to discern what she was more afraid of, now. Emptiness could have as much horror as presence.

She padded into the living room, running a shaky hand through her hair, swallowing to soothe the dryness in her throat. Her other hand was stretched out to touch the wall, fingertips splayed, dragging against it as she walked.

"Hello?" it wouldn't be Sam or he would have answered by now.

Her calls were met with another scratch; Andy zeroed in on the glass surrounding the front door. Squinting hard, she discerned a dark shape through the frosted glass. Eyes widening, she tip toed closer.

The shape moved again, and she move instinctively.

"Hey!" she cried out, pulling the door open suddenly.

The older man on the other side looked more surprised than lurky.

He stumbled back a little, almost losing balance on the concrete steps.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she glared, strong-postured, into his dark eyes.

The old man chuckled and shrugged a little sheepishly.

"I'm sorry, I—" he looked back over his shoulder and Andy tensed even further.

He looked like he wanted to run.

"You better have a good reason for lurking around outside a police officer's residence." She ground out, trying not to cringe at how weirdly formal and authoritative she sounded.

She probably looked pretty horrific after just waking up. She felt like crap, so she probably looked it. Maybe that's why he had trouble keeping eye contact.

"Speak up, or I'm calling the cops." She warned him, taking a step back inside, as if making a point.

"I thought you said _you_ were a cop?" he frowned, fumbling with his hands.

"I am," Andy cleared her throat. "But so is the guy who lives here."

His eyes widened a little more. Then his eyebrows pulled back over them.

"I'm actually looking for someone," he cleared his throat, and Andy narrowed her eyes at him.

He looked back up at her.

The man was about half a foot taller than her, with thick wiry grey hair, and deep brown eyes. His dark eyebrows engulfed his face. His cheeks were sort of hollow, and he had deep, deep wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

"The man that lives here, he's—he's police?"

Andy squinted at him harder, not to intimidate, but out of confusion.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"My name's Tony. I'm looking for Sam. Sam Swarek?" he said his name carefully, as if he was unsure of how to pronounce it.

Andy's confusion grew; her posture relaxing now that she gauged the man posed no threat.

"Who's asking?" she looked the man up and down again, more closely.

If she'd done it the first time, she would have realised. She wouldn't have had to ask the question.

"I'm his Dad. I'm Anthony Swarek."


	2. Blood from a Stone

A/N Hey guys, sorry about the tardiness of this update. I've been up to my neck in...well, nothing. I've got no excuses, just laziness! Enjoy!

* * *

It couldn't be the same truck. No freaking way.

That truck had to be over twenty years old. There was no way in hell Anthony still drove around in that piece of crap. Sam refused to believe it. Not just the fact that his father still owned the same car from when Sam was a kid, but that he'd had the nerve to show up at his apartment after ten years.

It wasn't easy avoiding Andy. Aside from the fact that she got incredibly grumpy when she was on night shifts, whenever they caught a glance of each other, she would look at him with hurt confusion.

She studied Sam, as if she could see the explanation written on his forehead. The problem was that before, people wouldn't have pressed him for details. They just don't do it. He'd created an atmosphere around himself, it was closed to everybody. No-one bothered to look hard enough; he stopped them before they did. He stopped people prying with a look he gave them; an attitude.

Now, he'd let someone in, and she didn't seem to want to leave.

She wanted to know what bothered him, what made him shout out in fear at night.

That was another problem.

Andy thought they were nightmares about getting shot.

She didn't know he'd been having them for the past decade.

Not to discount how scared he felt when his blood covered her hands, the fear in Andy's eyes as she looked at him, thinking he was going to die. Part of him knew he'd die that day. Without a chance to do everything he wanted, without having shared anything about himself with the people he cared about. His body feeling cold, and weak; helpless to the forces.

That part made him swallow hard.

Not to discount how scared he felt when Andy was abducted. Still being alive and mobile, but not being able to fix it made him feel as helpless as if he'd been the one taken.

That's what he did. He fixed things for people. Fixing himself seemed like too much work. There was a point when you have to decide if it's worth it or not; if it's doable, or if trying would only be more cruel.

Sam was caught up in his own thoughts that he'd stopped writing things down.

The young kid before him was shifting his weight, growing bored and restless. Oliver nudged Sam with his elbow.

"Did ya get that, brother? Randall, here, lives at number eighty-two, Beckett. D'you write that down?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, shaking his head out of the clouds.

Randall is fifteen years old; they'd caught him trying to break the window of a BMW to snatch the purse sitting on the front seat.

Luckily, he was a first timer; and didn't have any idea how hard it would be to break glass with his elbow. He hadn't even gotten inside before they caught him.

Oliver opened the back of their squad car and guided him into the backseat. The kid was amiable enough, didn't complain. Maybe this was going to be an easy day.

"You alright?" Oliver asked, eyes squinted against the sun.

Sam pouted his lips, still staring blankly at his notepad.

"Yeah," he replied. "Great. You?"

"This heat, man." He shook his head, the lifted it to look up at the cloudless sky. "Better not be another black out."

"Hm." Sam grunted, without volition, being thrown back into the memory of Andy coming to his place after she killed someone on the job.

Sam tried to shake off his daze, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead.

"Come on, let's get in and crank up the AC." Sam motioned for Oliver to get in.

"Some of us don't need it, Sammy. Some of us are just naturally cool."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, getting in to the driver's side.

They'd left the car off, and closed up for around half an hour.

"Jesus," Oliver exclaimed, then turned to look at Randall in the back seat. "Hey, sorry, man. Didn't know it was this hot in here."

"Listen, we're just gonna take you home, Randall. Next time we catch you trying to break into cars or houses or whatever, we're bringing you in." Sam spoke to him through the reflection of the mirror.

Randall nodded vehemently.

"Oh, man. Thanks. I swear it was just the one time. I'll never-never do it again. Promise. I swear guys, oh my god." He bowed his head into his knees and Oliver chuckled.

These kind of people made it easier being a cop; the ones that were sorry. They were also easy to read.

Randall wouldn't touch another car again; he'd been too piss-scared when he got caught. Hopefully they'd knocked that impulse out of him forever.

Sam remembered the first time he tried to break into a car. He was fifteen, too, actually. He was caught, too. The cop who caught him let him go, too. He made him promise to straighten up. After that, Sam was pretty much set on becoming a copper. It wasn't just Sarah's attack that made him want to apply, it was seeing someone doing the job well. That cop showed him that people can be admirable; that even if you have the power, you don't have to abuse it.

He shifted into drive as Oliver fiddled with the air-conditioner.

* * *

They got back to the barn after dropping Randall off at home. Lucky for him, his mother was at work; he was pretty much off the hook this time.

Sam was wandering back into the pit when he glanced up and caught Luke waving at him from inside his office. When Sam frowned in confusion at the detective, he motioned with his hand to come over.

Sam sucked in a breath and held it. Things hadn't been perfectly zen between them after everything that happened.

He'd never forgive him for the mistakes he made with Andy. But that's just it; they were mistakes. He was sorry. It was better to bury it when they were around each other. Better not to think about how much he could have lost because of Luke Callaghan. Better to grit his teeth and bear it; get on with the job. He jumped the steps up to the D's office.

Jerry gave him a nod as he went passed then went back to his phone call.

Luke was sitting back in his chair with an uncomfortable sounding grunt. It seemed it wasn't just Sam that felt the tension, either.

He waited impatiently as Luke tried to gather himself, glancing between him and the folder open on his desk.

Sam cleared his throat.

"You summoned?" he cocked his head to the side, adopting his signature condescending squint.

"I, uh…yeah." Luke cleared his throat, too. "I've got a case."

"Fascinating. What do you need me for?" Sam retorted, more bored and annoyed than angry.

"You worked guns and gangs." Luke replied, as if that explained everything.

Sam dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh, clenching his eyes shut.

"Again; what do you need me for, Callaghan?"

"I've got a case for you." His blue eyes flitted down to the folder before him, picking it up gently and handing it over to Sam.

Sam took it as Luke continued to explain.

"I'm at a dead end with this one." He rubbed his palm against his forehead. "Frank won't give me any leniency. I'm working on it alone and he won't give me any more bodies to help."

Sam read it over, his eyebrows shooting up.

"The Morte." He read. "You've got weapons traffickers that are _literally_ called 'the death'?" he snorted, flopping the file back onto Luke's desk.

"Good luck with that one." He turned to leave, trying not to make eye contact with Jerry as he spun in his chair to watch their exchange.

"Swarek, come on." His voice was edged with annoyance, but tilted down at the end as if to take away any sharpness that came across.

Sam looked back over his shoulder.

Luke looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, to serve him with a platter of curses, but he didn't. They both knew it was because he was still making up for the past; to make up for Andy. Whenever she was around, he wouldn't peep a negative word. But he had another debt; he unspeakably owed Sam. Not just because he got injured working Luke's case, too, but because he couldn't control his jealousy and anger, he neglected Andy's safety. To Sam, that was as personal as it could get.

Three years ago, they'd gotten along really well. Sam had never harboured an ill feeling towards the detective. They even played poker together occasionally. He was all shiny suits, combed hair, and by the book back then.

Sam didn't know the Luke that sat before him. This version was mean spirited, struggling, and tired.

"Alright," he sighed, taking a few steps back to the desk. "Shoot."

Maybe they'd still be friends if Sam had never fallen for Andy. Maybe they'd be friends if Luke didn't, either. Then again, what was dwelling going to achieve?

They weren't friends now.

They'd both fallen for Andy, and things had gotten messed up.

"We're looking at a whole shit storm of fallout from The Rouge Brothers case." Sam could practically hear the cringe in his voice. "We've had a few tips that the flow of product has sped up."

"Just because the brothers are dead, doesn't mean the dealers they sell to are." Sam countered. "They still need the product, might even be cheaper without the middle man."

"I'm not just talking drugs, Swarek," Luke thumbed through his folder for a second then produced a crime scene picture. "We took these at a raid last week," the photo slid across the desk.

Sam stopped it with his index finger, examining.

"Jesus." Was his first reaction.

It wasn't even a wide shot, but in the five square feet of space captured in the frame, Sam counted about fifteen automatic weapons.

"There's been a boom in the number of seized weapons, which of course means there's even more out on the streets." Luke continued. "The Brothers trafficked weapons, but not at this scale. They were the head honchos, so who the hell is behind this?"

Sam shook his head in awe.

"Okay," he nodded finally, waving the picture between his fingers. "I'm in."

* * *

"Annie White"

The interrogation room cast shadows over the woman's face, making her look older than she really was. Sam gazed at her through the 2A mirror as she fidgeted with an empty Styrofoam cup. She rubbed at her face every now and again, scrubbing the tears away.

Luke handed him a case file.

"Any priors?" Sam took the file, flipping it open.

"Possession. Back in oh-eight. Nothing serious."

"So why is she here?" Sam frowned, looking back at the young woman in confusion.

"Two words: Danny O'Reilly." Luke tapped a picture Sam held up.

"Charming." Sam commented sardonically.

A pair of glazed eyes stared back at him through the photograph. The body was mangled and bloody, evidence cards placed all around it.

"Small time dealer, mostly MDMA. We think he got greedy, wanted a bigger slice of the pie."

"You think it was this new crew?" Sam examined the picture more closely.

It was dirty. There were bullet casings right next to the body, blood spatter over the walls and floors.

"Well, the big guns are gone. O'Reilly wouldn't have even been worth it for the Brothers. Maybe 'The Morte' are trying to break new ground."

Sam looked back over at the girl through the glass. Her fingers were obscured under her shortly cropped blonde hair. Wearing quite plain clothes; a white cotton shirt and jeans, she didn't look too much like the part of a partner of a low life drug dealer.

"Next best guess is whoever took over for his supply. Besides, this is amateur work; it's too unclean to be serial, too disorganised to be an experienced gang."

"She was O'Reilly's girlfriend?"

Luke nodded in response. They both watched her rub her hands over her face for a moment before Sam stepped toward the door.

"Miss White?" he asked softly, letting the door close behind him.

He glanced sidelong at the glass, a small nod to Luke. He took a seat opposite Annie. With shining eyes, she stared up at him, watched him move with a sort of pained confusion. Red circles surrounded her eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he flattened his palms on the table before them.

It was non-threatening.

Annie brought her hands down from her face to mimic his actions.

"We were going to get married." She had a British accent. "But Danny had to go and fuck everything up, get himself killed…" she enunciated the last word with an extra strain of anger.

Her voice squeaked around his name, tears catching in the corners of her mouth.

"I know this must be hard." Sam cocked his head to the side, trying to catch her eye. "But I have to ask you about what Danny did for a living."

"I had nothing to do with that." Her eyes flashed with a hint of desperation. "I swear. Danny was a big boy, he made his own choices and obviously, that's what got him in the end."

"Okay, I believe you." Sam smiled reassuringly. "But did you ever see or meet anybody that Danny worked with?" his eyebrows pulled together. "By coincidence of course." He quickly added.

Annie leaned back in her chair, sniffling, then shrugged once.

"If I did, I never got their names."

"Would you recognise them if you saw them again?"

Annie shrugged again, and Sam nodded, taking another route.

"So, you were planning a wedding, then?"

Her face softened immediately, a small smile playing on her lips. She leaned back over the table eagerly, as if to share a secret.

"I was just picking out my wedding dress when I got the call." She smirked. "Can you believe that?" she shook her head, poking her tongue in her cheek.

Something besides grief flitted behind her blue eyes. Relief?

Sam eyes roamed over her face quickly. They dropped back to the table as he realised the redness and swelling around her eye wasn't only because of her tears.

He motioned toward her face with his pen.

"Danny give you that?"

Her hand hovered over the fresh bruise.

The thought made him uneasy; sickened. It gnawed at his insides; the thought of someone preying on the weak; the bigger person imposing themselves on the smaller person. He didn't want to begin to try to analyse why it bothered him so much.

But it did, especially when Annie sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, casting her eyes to the left.

A long drawn out breath, then a nod.

"I never said he was gonna be a _perfect_ husband."

"Did he do that a lot?" Sam continued.

Annie nodded, brushing her hair away from her face.

"I mean, not all the time. I guess it happened a lot more when he was stressed."

"Stressed about what?"

She shook her head and sighed.

"A big buy?" she phrased it like a question. "All I know is that the last time I saw him, Danny was freaking out, saying someone was following him. I told him he was being paranoid. I guess he had a reason to be scared."

"Why would anybody want to hurt him?"

Annie pulled her hands up, lacing them behind her head and leaning back into the chair again. She seemed to see-saw from comfortable, to bored, to excited, to grief-stricken.

A few tears reflected in the light, falling down either side of her face as she angled up to stare at the ceiling.

"Danny wasn't a very good employee. But if he ever fronted somebody, he knew they were good for the money. I don't know. Maybe he was worse than he ever let on."

Sam wrapped his fingers against the table once. Annie didn't have much more information than they did. As far as they knew, Danny got greedy and faced the wrath of a bunch of ruthless drug dealers.

"You don't know who he bought his product off? They ever come around looking for him?"

Annie just blinked once; silent.

Blood from a stone. She wouldn't give the information up, even if she knew anything. As sweet as she looked, Annie White wasn't an idiot. Although, maybe her silence was actually what made her even more stupid than Danny.

But Sam wasn't in the mood to play bad cop, or to intimidate someone who probably had to deal with that kind of threat every day of her life. He wasn't into making her feel like a piece of crap. Not today.

"I'm sorry to put you through this." Sam stood up.

"Wait," she reached her hand out between them, just brushing the back of his.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

"Not many people care what I have to say. Officer?"

Sam paused for a moment.

"My name's Sam." He smiled once, briefly. "Detective Callaghan will be back to talk to you then you should be able to go home, okay?"

She nodded and Sam turned toward the door.

"To what?" she mumbled.

Sam pretended not to hear her.

* * *

Sam got a lift home from Oliver when he realised Andy's next shift didn't meet up with the end of his. He'd gingerly gotten into Ollie's battered sedan, imagining the tense exchange he expected to occur once he had a moment alone with Andy.

Of course, his best friend tried to keep up small talk as Sam stared out the window with a grimace.

Suppose, Andy was still home, he could at least tell her about getting into work again with Callaghan. She'd be interested in anything to do with The Rouge Brothers, even indirectly.

Sam had managed to calm himself with these thoughts as they pulled up into his street packed with parked cars. It was dark, but he spotted his truck still parked at the curb. She definitely hadn't left yet.

"Thanks, man," he shut the car door, waving.

They'd gotten a little rain earlier that night, wetting the ground, taking the harsh dryness out of the air. The moisture turned to steam on the heat soaked road. Sam jogged across the street toward his house, pausing to pick up a soggy newspaper from the stoop. He bit his lip, turning the door knob and pushing through.

He sighed in exasperation.

"Andy? How many times I gotta tell you before you keep the door locked?" he called out, forgetting their stalemate for a moment, and toeing his boots off by the door.

"I could have been anybody." He raised his head toward the lit up living room.

Andy stood up nervously from her perch on the sofa, her hands coming together. Sam was momentarily confused by the stranger sitting rigidly on the arm chair facing her.

He should have known this time would come; always dreaded the idea, but never accepted it.

"What are you doing here?" he looked straight past Andy, speaking directly to the old man.

He shook at the knees as he stood up. Andy turned to glance back at him, then back at Sam. He tried not to look at her in betrayal. She didn't know about his dad; didn't know not to trust him; didn't know not to invite him in this house.

"Andy," he blinked, not taking his eyes off his father. "You're gonna be late for work."

Andy brought her wrist up to glance at it out of habit despite the absence of a watch.

"Yeah, I know. I just thought I should wait up for you." She collected her jacket, draped over the sofa behind her then made her way towards the door.

He caught her elbow gently before she passed him.

"You okay?" it was pretty much the first time they'd made proper eye contact in weeks.

The feeling was a shock to the system, and he only now realised how effectively he'd been blocking things out. As she nodded confusedly, he wished he could just hold her. He wished he hadn't ignored her for the past few weeks. Maybe then, his father wouldn't be standing in their living room, watching them the way you stare at something to memorise it.

Andy seemed to sense his unease.

"I can be a tiny bit late." She shrugged one shoulder, Sam's grip still firm on her arm.

He should let go.

Memories gripped him from the inside out, threatening to boil over into god knows what. Feeling six years old again, he felt his breaths come quicker.

_I'm not afraid of you anymore._ He chanted in his head.

The fear tangled together inside him like blackened vines, squeezing out his breath, flattening his courage.

He wasn't afraid of Anthony Swarek. Not anymore. He was afraid of the memories his presence brought back.

Sam's façade had almost ruptured, a whole life's worth of pent up rage was about to spill over. And yet the room remained silent, unknowing of the splintering inside him.

"Maybe we should do this another time." Andy spoke; it was a push to the door for Anthony, and a question for Sam.

Sam swallowed, blinking, unable to give an intelligible answer.

"I'm sorry to barge in on you like this." Anthony apologised, wringing his hands together.

The sound of his voice plucked unpleasantly at Sam's nerves. His eyes sagged. The corners of his mouth sagged, brought down in a line from the corners of his nose to below his chin. He was jowly, and leathery.

The drink, the hatred and the harshness had been tough on his looks.

Salt and pepper hair, grown too long, fell over his eyes.

"Are you?" Sam replied with the coppery taste of hate on his tongue.

"I heard you were in an accident. I heard you got shot." His eyes dropped to the floor.

It was called Shame.

"Yeah," Sam responded. "Who told you?"

"Sarah."

Sam grit his teeth together. Maybe he wouldn't have the same memories if he'd left home earlier. If it weren't for the fact that he was too scared to leave Anthony alone with his mom and his sister, then maybe he wouldn't be so damaged. Maybe those few extra years of torment would never have happened.

And now, after that sacrifice, his father still gets to speak to Sarah. It felt like Sam was the outsider, the only one that knows the truth, or even believes it.

The rest of his family must have an incredibly selective memory. Either that, or maybe Sam was better at hiding than he thought.

Possibly the most surprising thing was that they spoke to Anthony about the shooting.

It was sort of an unspoken rule between the Swareks; Sam didn't come up in conversation. If he wanted to share, he would bring it up himself. Which was rare, hence why they were the last to find out he was injured on the job.

Sam breathed in, leaning his head back and staring at Anthony down the length of his nose.

"Well, it's getting late."

The subtlety was louder than the words themselves.

He felt Andy move beside him, looked down, and only then realised he still had a tighter than comfortable grip on her arm.

Their eyes met again and he knew he couldn't hide from her anymore.

Looking back at Anthony, he still hadn't moved.

"I'll see you later, then." He cleared his throat, watching his father shuffle meekly across the living room.

Just as Sam expected him to continue to the front door, he stopped right by Andy's side.

He tensed, uneasy with his proximity to them. Sam wasn't the uneasy type, was too hard to jostle. The fact that just Anthony's presence could change his behaviour so drastically made his hatred even more potent.

"It was nice to meet you, Andy." He held out his hand for her to shake.

Andy accepted the gesture with a tense smile; she must have felt Sam tighten his grip again as he touched her.

They let go.

Anthony was gone.

He couldn't release the breath he'd been holding.


End file.
